by Jackson, Gil
She never came out with him and he wondered why? He laughed at the thought of her sitting on a saloon bar stool removing a cherry from its stick with her lips before sipping at a vermouth or whatever her kind drank. Nectar? He supposed that angels didn’t have an objection to drinking and supposed they would do what they did to enjoy themselves when they were ... well whatever. Not that he could see her drinking cocktails at six.
He pondered her life. Hadn’t it been cut short? If she was Fariq’s daughter, it certainly had been — and in a most appalling manner. As had Frank’s for that matter; and where was he now? Dear boy. They should have both retired together. She hadn’t saved him after what he had done for her, her and her damned Almighty connections. Perhaps Angus Paul had a point when he suggested to Allan Georgos that God had long since gone. It would certainly explain a lot in this rotten to the core world: why she was Earthbound for instance. It made sense — even His Son was taken aback by His own Father’s forsakenness — He wasn’t there to hear Him crying out. Maybe He could see the way things were beginning to pan out with the human race and just plain foocked off.
Still there were other considerations now. If Frank’s report had been accurate, and he saw no reason to believe otherwise, what happened in Giuseppi’s house that day involved her, and if he thought about it, was the cause of her ... elevation ... possibly, and more frighteningly, Giuseppi’s. Although how anything could turn a man into a child abuser in the first place, would have a head start curriculum vitae-wise to a higher order was difficult to comprehend. Giuseppi’s track record might not have been straight and narrow, but at least he was a common to good old-fashioned gangster that we can all understand. Something tipped him into depravity and if it wasn’t the Lord God Himself who was running things that would allow a mutant cell right of passage to infect a beautiful creation of a child? His own faith was steeped in evil come to that. Pope Innocent IV to mention but a few. Doesn’t seem to matter what a man is, if he’s bent on an outcome, something’ll get into him to achieve it, good or bad. In Giuseppi’s case bad, and in Pope Innocent’s, good reasons misplaced; no less the painful though, if you, a heretic were, tormented. He sighed and ordered a fourth Guinness and an Irish chaser.
A lifetime’s bit on the side with a result of 1-0 to Giuseppi, he thought, that’s its sum total for the deviant criminal of the millennium and David picks up the torch and unfortunately listening to him put it back down; knowing that director Lomax and other’s were aware of some of what was going on. He smiled. That’ll be hard for him, but not as hard as it would be on his mother if anything was to happen to him. David’s still in the firing line whether he persists in the investigation. Either way there could still be a germ of an idea in his head to bring the killer of his father to justice. Which would, of course, bring him back to Giuseppi. David was an intelligent and capable agent with all the trappings of Frank’s incorruptibility, and he would make damn sure that if that should happen he would be there to back and advise him. He left Doheny & Nesbitt’s a little worse for wear but in a better frame than he had been for some time.
***
Twelve years came and went. Lomax transferred David out of Vice, much to my relief and Sarah’s — short lived. He and his wife, Ruth had a son: Arnold H. Weinberg. Director Franklin Lomax retired. David’s services led to his appointment by J. Edgar Hoover to become head of Security and Political Intelligence within the Bureau; and was present when John F. Kennedy was assassinated, 1963; J. Edgar Hoover survived a third attempt to oust him, by Lyndon B. Johnson: two previous attempts being Harry Truman and John F. Kennedy; Hoover himself died May 2, 1972 whilst still serving as 1st Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. (Personally I admired the man.) David, his wife Ruth, Sarah, me and Franklin Lomax were the subject of a gangland hit when Dutchie’s restaurant we were celebrating a lifetime’s friendship was blown to pieces by a bomb in a suitcase. I was in the john at the precise moment it went off and blown out through the window and into the street. Sarah came out without a scratch. No one else survived.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 18 – 1997
Kill a man, and you are an assassin.
Kill millions of men, and you are a conqueror.
Kill everyone, and you are a god.
JEAN ROSTAND, 1894–1977
Hamilton Fitch sat calmly watching. The video showed the date as November 22, 1963 1230 CST, Dallas. Waiting for one of two bullets from the assassin, Lee Harvey Oswald’s 6.5mm calibre Italian Carcano rifle finding its mark into the 35th President of America John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s head. And, like any other body made of bone taking on the impact of a high velocity bullet in the right place succumbed to the inevitability of a messy end.
There was, of course, more to this pageant. Agents’ running to the Lincoln Convertible, which had just turned from Houston into Elm Street, chauffeuring the passengers: Governor John Connally, his wife Nellie; the President, John Fitzgerald Kennedy, and his wife, the First Lady, Jackie Kennedy — reaching back for her husbands brains that adorned the rear seat valance of the convertible — the realisation of a deep-seated fear coming to a culmination; and the figure of an FBI agent: one of 15 in a motorcade of five official limousines; and thought to be Hamilton’s own father, running alongside the President’s car to shield him from a further death.
The fading music of The Chiffons singing: I Have A Boyfriend, being a bizarre segue to the radio announcement interrupted by Gary Delaune, newsreader: This KLIF bulletin from Dallas. Three shots reportedly fired at the motorcade of President Kennedy today near the downtown section. KLIF News is checking out the report, we will have fuller reports, stay tuned....
* * *
Hamilton freeze-framed the images before resetting the video back to re-wind.
He was fascinated in watching this piece of history unfolding before his eyes. He was writing a contributory article for a forthcoming feature to mark 35 years after the event. Which begged the conspiracy-old questions. Was Oswald the assassin? Was Jack Ruby, in league? Why did they do it? What could possibly be gained?
All the conspiracy theories that had been expounded upon by experts. The reams of paper going over, and over and concluding the same thing — nothing for certain, nothing for sure. It was to many, America’s greatest unsolved crime and one that had fascinated him and the rest of the world ever since.
Everyone knows — probably a myth — where and what they were doing the day Kennedy was shot, he of course did not, he was too young. He often wondered how an outcome may have differed had the assassin missed. He often wondered how anything would have differed had events not gone according to pre-planned ideas of leaders, good or evil, if.
If. Such a little word — hardly a word at all — but what power lay in its construction. He had re-enacted that day, and concluded that If anything to prevent the act would have been possible it might have been prevented, but, not, necessarily from happening again. The assault would probably have been repeated sometime or someplace else until the assailant struck lucky. Determination and persistence are bedfellows destined to pro-create.
His hearing slowly accustomed to the clatter of the editing terminals. Two sub-editors’ were banging out copy in front of their screens. Green luminescent words reflecting in their glasses from the computers, reflecting the presentation of the news they made-up. Banks of television stations were relaying news from around the world in all languages.
He had 5,000 words to get out for tomorrow’s edition. Unlike men, a newspaper never sleeps (although this edition had been put to bed). And neither, thought Hamilton, do its staff. He concentrated on the task before him. The President of France was visiting the White House.
His heart always went into overdrive whenever he was night editor and the phone went. He used to think that it was the novelty of the job when he first started that gave him the buzz, but it had been ten years since he left NBC News - and it still happened. He was crime correspondent. Not bad for someone that sho
uld have been a lecturer in politics. He smiled to himself; they could hardly have put him in charge of homes and gardens.
He picked the phone up. ‘Fitch!’
The voice was of a woman, low slow and velvety and the kind you could listen to for an eternity (had he the time).... He replied in the affirmative and gave her space to speak when she repeated his name.
‘You don’t know me, Mr. Fitch, but my name is Annie Carter and I’ve been seconded to the Federal Bureau of Investigation.’
... Then she said those words.
‘Miss Carter, you must be aware that I’ve turned the FBI down more times than I can remember, why you have to keep calling me, I do not know, but it’s been going on since I was at University. I shall say this once more and that’s it, I’m not interested. Nothing personal you understand, but there is no more to be said on the matter. Goodbye!’
‘No, Mr. Fitch, I didn’t know that, please, it’s not that.’
Lying cow.
‘Well that’s as maybe but I work in newspapers and if you’ll forgive me, I’ve blank sheets that are screaming out for words.’
‘Mr. Fitch, I can assure you we’re not involved in recruiting, and it’s because of your track record in newspaper reporting that I need to meet with you — urgently, off the record.
‘Miss Carter, I know nothing of the workings of the FBI except for one thing, they do not hold meetings informal or otherwise unless they want something. What is it you want?’
‘I cannot explain this over the telephone but it’s something that will change the way we think of ourselves forever....’
‘Miss Carter, please excuse my brashness, and I’m not questioning your integrity for a single minute, but I write newspaper pages; I know the way people think, it’s my living; we change the way people think every day of the week, you’ll have to be more convincing than that for my editor to break from war, politics, and the anatomical credentials of female celebrities to get him onside. A good deal more than a “change to the way we think of ourselves” is going to have to sound more stimulating than that. So unless you have discovered a cream that will make ugly women beautiful, beautiful women intelligent, and intelligent women less egotistical, goodbye.’ He listened for the phone to click down.
She didn’t flinch a single face muscle at his pathetic attempt at chauvinism for she knew more of the man than he could possibly imagine. A man of directness and integrity that would use throw away lines to get rid of a person more than be personally rude: she could see through his smokescreen; she would not be put off and persisted; went straight for his jugular in reply.
‘More stimulating! I’m not selling Billy Graham evangelism, Mr. Weinberg. What in your experience of world-breaking news would bring Mr. Average away from watching the Yankees or the Bears; putting his beer and hotdog down; the entire two teams stopping play indefinitely; television stations postponing transmission with no complaints from sponsors; in short, not a grievance to be heard? All that, Mr. Weinberg, with not a sign of terrorism, violence, catastrophe or war. Come on Mr. Newsman, take your hands off your cock, and start thinking with your head, for this call is the 1000th after 999 colds, and the one that the whole world would want you to answer, call me before I call others and you become known as the man that said No! to Miss. Del Monte!’ The phone clicked down this time, and removing it from his ear, momentarily had a flashback of a thought he could not describe; without thinking immediately tapped call-back.
* * *
Across 32nd Street and opposite to the Post’s office was Fat Frank’s. Familiar ground for a meeting if you had nothing to hide — all the hacks’ brunched, lunched, smoked, drank, and coffeed there. It was scruffy, cheap, unpretentious, and popular. They had good beer and passable food? No! They didn’t. The beer was good! The food was crap! Where Fat Frank came into it, Hamilton had never asked: for a Greek guy from Athens called Elidas Phaidon ran it.
A rumpled sort of a man you could not immediately imagine around food — but whom you did warm to ... eventually.
‘Hello, Mr. Fitch, ‘ow you doin’? I’ve had some real bolognaise made up and it doesn’t stain the front of your vest if you don’t splash it, ha ha will you be eating? Please sit yourself down.’
‘Okay, but put some spaghetti with it this time, remember, like the Italians?’
He smiled at his salesmanship. ‘Ah the Italians, sure ... Certo.’ He turned his head to one side, spat on the floor and turned back to him smiling. ‘Parma cheese with that, Mr. Fitch?’ then called to his wife, who was as equally rumpled and only slightly more savoury. ‘Bolognaisey for Mr. Fitch, presto, presto.’
Some, what sounded like expletives came from the direction of the kitchen but he couldn’t be sure if she was practising English or using native-tongued Albanian. Instinctively he looked around at the other tables to see if he recognised anyone from the competition in case the Miss Carter did have something worth saying. There were none, he’d chosen the right time. They’d all gone to watch the game. He wondered if it would be called off after she had spoken.
He made his way to a table and sat down.
‘Not there!’ Phaidon shouted from his counter and loudly announced. ‘Nice looking, beautiful lady over there, says she’s waiting to see you.’
Hamilton closed his eyes momentarily and with a grimace of embarrassment nodded at him and made his way in the direction he was pointing. A corner by a side window with half nets that were half torn, half clean and half up.
He called across on his way. ‘Bring us a Metaxa and whatever the beautiful lady’s drinking.’
With the same volume voice — he’d been watching too many old films in his education of all things American — shouted across the eater. ‘Sure thing, Mr. Fitch.’ Winked at him before obeying his wife’s admonishment, You stupid fat Greek get in ‘ere, before he disappeared into the backroom that had only a passing resemblance to a kitchen fit for food preparation.
‘Miss Carter, Hamilton Fitch, political and science editor, New York Post, nice to meet you.’ He held his hand out to her, which she shook gently from his fingers.
She was right: he did not have a chauvinistic one-liner persona. ‘Annie Carter, pleased to meet you, please sit down, thanks for seeing me.’
Phaidon was right, she was. He guessed her to be in her thirties, auburn hair, brown eyes, five foot six, or seven, 120 pounds.
He was interrupted all too soon.
‘Brandy, Mr. Weinberg — wine for the lady.’
‘Thank you.’ she said.
Phaidon nodded, took away her previous empty glass, and smiled.
Hamilton decided that he wouldn’t bother with the bolognaise after all; told Phaidon, and dropped him a note for his trouble. Phaidon shrugged and expressed a puzzled look on his face that anyone would turn down his bolognaise and pay for it, muttered, turned and went.
Hamilton turned to her. ‘Miss Carter, I’m sorry we got off to a bad start I was not being polite, it’s not my normal manner, please excuse me and tell me the story that will cause the world to pause for breath.’
‘What I’m to tell you, and what you might see, carries a risk; that you keep as much of this to yourself for your own health and safety....’
Here comes the catch.
PART THREE
CHAPTER 19 – 1997
Max Stenna, editor-in-chief of the New York Post guessed Hamilton had something that he hadn’t wanted to bring up in front of everyone by the way he waited round for the rest of the editorial team to clear off.
‘Come on, what is it, Fitch?’
Hamilton knew that Max wouldn’t be convinced if he told him of the woman’s story, he was too cute to be fobbed off — but he had to tell him enough to let him have some rope. That some scientists had discovered a short-cut to bringing around coma victims and that they had discovered what they think is an Angel. Not the truth of course, but how could he bring that out, it would all be too fantastical.
‘OK, get on with it, onl
y don’t be all day, the French President’s coming is important. America can do with all the friends it can get at the moment.’ Max said to him and dismissed him at the same time when his phone rang.
Hamilton went to his desk and put his thoughts into hyper-drive. Find out about the body from another source — he wouldn’t need her or the FBI. Leave plenty of time to cover Jacque Chirac’s visit and still have change of a dollar. See who this Annie Carter is and who’s playing Frankenstein these days?
Working on the knowledge that there were more records to be found on the future death of someone than anywhere else; after going through the more usual inquiry channels that were open to him. He went through the Post’s pre-deceased obituary files and rather curiously came up with a Carmelite nun with the name Anne Carter, BA, a Sister working within the Vatican’s Secret Archives. Her bibliography had a passing familiarity to her, but not one he would have thought be connected with any security services, like the FBI.
He had no better luck with mysterious bodies having been unearthed; least not those with skins on; and with his curiosity still intact he left it at that and awaited her call. This came sooner than expected telling him that she would meet him the following day.
* * *
He said nothing of what he knew of her.
She drove them down to Santos County. He sat quiet for most of the trip, not a little annoyed that this woman was in control. With the wonderment of who she might be. He had hoped that she would give more of a clue to her past than the FBI. She didn’t. Even when they stopped at a freeway diner, the conversation was little more than pleasantries.